


Marks of War

by inspirationcocoa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspirationcocoa/pseuds/inspirationcocoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War and devastation have rocked Westeros and now it is time to rebuild. A bruised and scarred Myrcella Baratheon, now Lannister, is sent North and taken in by a reluctant Robb who is trying to rebuild Winterfell and deal with his own guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pawns

**Author's Note:**

> I tried really hard to make this PwoP but I apparently I really like plot. The explicitness will come later once it’s a bit more earned.

**_“We’re not broken just bent and we can learn to love again”_**  

             When kings and queens play the game of thrones, there are knights and bishops and pawns. The pawns get shuttled back and forth between the castles. They are the prisoners, dressed up like guests. And when the wars end, they are the promises held at knifepoint. The War of the Five Kings ended but then came the wights and then the dragons, and what began as a war for the Iron Throne, became a war for the very life of Westeros. After the dust had settled, Daenerys Targaryen sat the Iron Throne with Aegon Targaryen and Jon Snow at her side and the Imp as her Hand. Robb Stark, once he’d broken free of the Frey’s imprisonment and captured King’s Landing and Casterly Rock for his good brother and queen, had been named Warden of the North and reinstated as the Lord of Winterfell. And after he and Jon had rooted out every Bolton and Frey from the North, he’d set to the work of rebuilding Winterfell to its former glory. But Winterfell would never be the same. It would never be filled with Arya and Bran’s laughter as they ran through the halls. Or the sound of Sansa’s singing as she sewed with their mother by the fire. Robb would never hear the soft pads of Grey Wind’s steps as the wolf followed him down the hall. Even if he replaced every brick and stone, there were some things that would never be the same. 

             Myrcella Baratheon, well Lannister now, returned to King’s Landing no longer a princess and no longer beautiful in the eyes of many but beyond that not much had changed. Though the war had ended, Myrcella was still a pawn, though no longer the coveted piece she may have once been. Her face, which had grown even more like her mother’s, was marred by the long scar the Darkstar had given her on the sands of Dorne. Because she was a highborn lady and therefore a captive of worth, she hadn’t been mistreated per se but she’d lived these past few years in confinement and exile. Once her grandfather had been killed and her mother taken into confinement by the High Septon, Myrcella had no one to look out for her. The Martells were embroiled in their own scandals, trying to keep the Sand Snakes and Arianne in check, while treating with the Targaryen queen across the sea and keeping Myrcella out of sight and Arys Oakheart’s death a secret. Yes there were many secrets buried in the sands of Dorne and for a few years it seemed as if Myrcella had been forgotten amongst those shifting grains of sand.

             When Tyrion finally sent for her, nearly a year after the end of the war, Myrcella was almost sixteen. She arrived at King’s Landing just days before her name day.  When she entered the throne room, much had been changed. The twin banners of Baratheon and Lannister had been torn down, replaced by the red and black of House Targaryen. Daenerys had also exhumed the dragon skulls from beneath the Red Keep and they hung on either side of the Iron Throne as if the Dragon Queen and her consorts were not already imposing. Myrcella walked, head held high, towards the throne determined not to let the heated glares of the court make her tremble. She was a lion. More lion than all of them and lions did not cower. Her mother had walked from the statue of Baelor the Blessed to the Red Keep shorn and shamed. Surely Myrcella could walk a few yards and face the Dragon Queen.

           “Your Grace,” Myrcella said with deference. She bowed and Dany slowly made her way down the steps of the Iron Throne until she was a few feet from the fallen princess.

           “Rise, Lady Lannister,” Dany said with just a hint of softness in her steel tones. Dany held the younger girl’s face in her hand and gazed on her face. Myrcella didn’t know what was worse, the contempt when people saw how much she favored her mother, or their pity because she would never be as beautiful as her mother once was. But the Dragon Queen’s expression was unreadable but it did give Myrcella a chance to look over the queen. She was not that much older than Myrcella in years but clearly the war had aged her. She was beautiful with large purple eyes and hair like woven sunlight and moonlight. Myrcella had heard she dressed in whatever fashion she felt like, Quartheen, Dothraki, Westerosi, Ibben, Ghiscari. And today she was in the painted horsehair trousers and vest of the Dothraki, with a black crown wrought in Valaryian steel with rubies upon her head. Myrcella tried hard not to pull away from the queen but there was a ferocity in the young woman that even her mother would have respected. “You are welcome at court Lady Myrcella,” she said turning from the girl. Myrcella had to stop herself from crying out. _That was all? That was what she’d endured years in the hot sands of Dorne for? To be seen and dismissed?_ Myrcella stood dismayed at the foot of the Iron Throne unsure of what to do next. She didn’t even notice that he uncle had waddled to her side.

            Myrcella had not seen him for many years, not since he’d played her like a card in his game of war. Long before he’d murdered her grandfather, before he’d fled across the Narrow Sea and joined the Dragon Queen’s cause. Though she might look a fright with her scar, her uncle was a far worse sight. Battles and his exile had taken their toll on him, but his voice was gentle as he asked her to sup with him in the Tower of the Hand that evening. Though she had not yet decided how she felt about her uncle, it wasn’t like she would be receiving a better offer so she quickly agreed and thanked her uncle for his invitation. Let it never be said that Myrcella Lannister did not remember her curtsies.

* * *

 

           Robb had not been with a woman since his Jeyne had died. The night of the Red Wedding he’d watched his friends and family’s blood run on the floor of Walder Frey’s Great Hall and a part of him died as well. He didn’t know why they’d chosen to keep him hostage rather than taking his life with the others. In fact, given how he’d eventually ran them all through with his sword, it would have been smarter to kill him that night. But it’s not like The Late Lord Frey and his inbred flock had been known for their cunning. Still they had nearly broken him. First, he’d watched as they stabbed Jeyne and their unborn child to death. Then, as his mother plead for his life, begged them to spare Robb, he’d never forget Walder Frey’s words. “He will live Lady Stark, but you will not live to see it” and Robb had watched helpless as Raymund Frey slit his mother’s throat. It was the last thing he remembered before he woke days later the dank cells beneath the Twins.

          Before the war had even ended, many tried to convince him to take Roslin Frey as a wife. She had borne a Tully heir, the only evidence of her brief marriage to his Uncle Edmure. Edmure himself had been murdered by the Freys the minute the babe breathed his first breath. They no longer needed him once they had their own Lord Tully borne of Frey blood. But while the Freys were focused on securing Riverrun and fighting off The Brotherhood without Banners, Lord Stannis and Asha Greyjoy were able to free the Young Wolf and once that happened, the tenuous stability and security of the North and the Riverlands was all but lost. Once Robb was free he rode to Riverrun and put every Frey and Lannister he could to the sword before meeting Jon and his new queen in King’s Landing. And then he rode North and showed the Flayed Men that their flesh meant little to a wolf.

           But when he returned to the Riverlands, he found he could not even look upon Roslin Frey. Reflected in her eyes he saw the scenes of the Red Wedding play over and over like a never-ending mummer’s show. And when he looked at her newborn Tully son, he saw the child that he and Jeyne would never have. So he left her once more in the care and guardianship of his uncle the Blackfish and headed back to Winterfell to try and pick up the pieces.

 

* * *

            Myrcella had never really been alone with her uncle Tyrion. She wasn’t a boy like Joffrey and Tommen so she’d spent most of her time with her septa and the few Lannister cousins that her mother had seen fit for her to consort with. Occasionally, she gone riding with Jaime but even those moments had been few and far between and rarely had it been just the two of them. But she did know her uncle was smart and loved to read as was evidenced by the extensive library he’d culled together in the newly rebuilt Tower of the Hand.

            Here he did hang his Lannister colors and banners though they hung equally with the Targaryen sigil. Myrcella could imagine that her grandfather was spinning in his grave at that but then again, if the rumors were to be believed (and usually they could), her grandfather had died with little honor and had no right to judge. As Tyrion slid into his seat across from her and the cupbearer served their wine, he looked at her matter-of-factly, assessing her. Myrcella had almost forgotten what it was like to have someone look at her directly. Too often people averted their gaze but her uncle was not your average man. She almost laughed out loud at the thought, there was nothing about her uncle that was average.

            “Now I’m sure you must have questions,” Tyrion asked.

            “Tommen?” It was the first thought that sprang to her mind and she couldn’t stop herself from blurting it out.

            “Tommen is safe. He is being fostered at Highgarden with the Tyrells. They still have hope that Lady Margeary may one day consummate her marriage and if I name him heir to Casterly Rock, they think they will have control of the south and the west.” He snorted derisively. “The only reason they were welcomed into the Queen’s peace is because they surrendered so easily. Not that they had a choice with dragons bearing down on them from the east and wolves from the north. But Lady Margaery did save dear Tommen’s life. If it had not been for her, your mother would have taken him when she took her own life.”

             Myrcella had heard.  Of how her mother had come into the throne room as the wolves beat down the doors of the Red Keep and the dragons flew overhead. She’d reached for Tommen to kill him. Determined that he would die King of the Seven Kingdoms and sitting upon the Iron Throne but Margaery had saved his life and when the wolves came through the door Cersei Lannister was dead upon the floor by her own hand. At least, that was how the Tyrells told it.

             “And Uncle – Ser Jaime” she asked. “What has come of him?”

             “He was beheaded,” Tyrion said. This time there was none of the derision he’d had when talking of Cersei’s death. Tyrion sat back and quietly told her about how he had tried to reason with his brother. But Jaime was a member of the Kingsguard and loyal to House Lannister until the end. He wouldn’t treat with a kinslayer and he wouldn’t trade his loyalties to the Dragon Queen. So defiant and unbowed, he’d gone to the headsman. It was said that even though he’d done the deed himself, there was sorrow on Jon’s face as he brought the Valyrian blade that had once belonged to the man who raised him down on the knight’s neck.

              By the time, Tyrion had finished telling the stories of the horrors of the war, the candles burned low and Myrcella had drunk more than her fair share of Arbor gold and had worked up the courage to ask the question they’d been avoiding all evening. “So what is to happen to me, uncle?”  

* * *

 

            When Myrcella arrived at Winterfell, the snow lay in a soft blanket on the ground. Everything was covered in glittering ice and the trees shone like jewels in the afternoon sun. As she exited her litter, she inhaled the cold air and watched as her breath made wisps of smoke in the air.

            “Lady Lannister, welcome to Winterfell,” said a young man. It took Myrcella a second to realize it was Rickon Stark. He was one and ten, but he looked much older. She curtsied.

            “Thank you for having me, my lord,” she replied as if she were simply on a visit.

            “My brother is sorry he could not receive you. He was called away to the Umbers but he should return later today or tomorrow. He has planned a feast in your ladyship’s honor the day after tomorrow.” Rickon said all of this with the stiff airs of someone who’d practiced getting it right, so Myrcella replied in kind so that his efforts would not be in vain and as soon as she could, she retired to the rooms of her new home. 

* * *

            Robb didn’t know why he’d agreed to take in the fallen princess. Maybe it was because of Jon’s letter. He’d sounded so piteous when he’d described the scarred and orphaned girl. Jon had written that even Dany, who had no love for Lannisters, could not bear to look upon the girl (though she wouldn’t let the girl return to Casterly Rock since the Queen was determined to ensure that that base of Lannister power not be rebuilt). Maybe it was because he remembered the little girl who’d come to King’s Landing so many years ago. She had been gracious to Arya and looked up to Sansa who had wanted so badly to impress the young princess and her brothers. Maybe it was because there were no women in Winterfell. Sansa had died in childbirth during her farce of a marriage to Harry the Heir and Arya had never been found. Maybe it was because if there was any place to rebuild your life, it was in the snows and ruins of Winterfell.

            He wasn’t there when she arrived but he called on her the next day. Robb knew part of it was curiosity. He wanted to see this girl, woman really, who had endured the machinations of the Red Keep only to be disfigured and imprisoned in Dorne. And he wondered what made her agree to come here. When he knocked at her door, he was surprised that she answered herself. For a second, it was like seeing the Lannister twins risen from the dead. If not for the pink and puckered scar that ran lengthwise down the right side of her face she could have been her mother.

            “Lady Lannister,” Robb said, trying hard to remember the curtsies they almost never used in the North. “I had hoped you would break your fast with me.”

            “Myrcella,” she replied.

            “I’m sorry.” Robb was momentarily distracted by the sound of her voice. It was light and silvery though he could detect a hint of hesitation and sadness the more she spoke.

            “You can just call me Myrcella, my lord.”

            “Well if I am to call you Myrcella, than surely you must call me Robb.” Robb took her arm and escorted her downstairs to his solar. He couldn’t help looking at her. Her blonde hair, Lannister hair, curled softly and she’d pulled it back with tiny combs. Her gown, though golden was simple in style and a material. Her arm laced through his own, they entered his solar where a breakfast of fruit, oatcakes and porridge was laid out. “I hope you don’t think us inhospitable but the cook is overwhelmed with the upcoming feast so I told them to prepare something simple so they could continue to work in the kitchens.”

            “No, my lo—Robb,” Myrcella, said catching herself. “This will more than suffice. And thank you for your hospitality. It is more than a Lannister could expect to deserve from a Lord of Winterfell.”

            “Well we Starks still hold true to the laws of guest right,” Robb said and Myrcella immediately realized her mistake. She started to apologize but Robb stopped her. “I cannot expect you to take on the debts of your forefathers and bannermen.” Robb cracked an oatcake in half and handed her a piece. “Besides most of them died at my sword, so we’ll consider it even.”

            Myrcella would have laughed at the absurdity of their conversation if she wasn’t also slightly frightened. But she was a lion. And lions did not fear wolves. 

* * *

            There weren’t any other ladies at Winterfell. Both of Robb’s sisters were gone, he had no wife, and Myrcella had chosen to journey to Winterfell on her own. She’d had enough of lesser Lannister cousins waiting on her to last a lifetime and none of them were ever true friends. There were a few women around, serving girls and the older cook, but there were no highborn maidens so besides Robb and Rickon, she had no other companions.            

            After the feast, the lesser lords and their ladies had returned to their keeps in the North. Myrcella later learned that that was where Robb had been when she arrived, dealing with the lords of the North who refused to feast in honor of the Bastard Princess, which is what they called her behind her back. The nicer ones called her the Snow Lion, on account of her bastard parentage and her Lannister roots. Either way, within the week, most of the lesser lords had left and Winterfell was once again cold and quiet, the air punctuated with the sound of hammers as new walls were built to replace the damage that the Ironmen and later the Flayed Men had wrought.

            Although Winterfell was close to what it once was, Myrcella knew that it would never be the same. It was not as she had remembered it all the years ago with the sound of the Stark children running through its halls and the clang of wooden swords in the yard. Myrcella remembered when she’d first come to Winterfell and how, despite the cold, there was a warmth there that she’d never felt in King’s Landing.  And now that warmth was gone.

            It was easy for her to become friends with Rickon. Though he looked older he was still a child and he ached for companionship. The two of them went riding more often than not and Myrcella was even daring enough to take off her gown and lace up a pair of Robb’s old breeches and spar in the yard with him. There was no one in Winterfell to call her on her lack of decorum and as time went on, Myrcella cared less and less about the whispers. Sometimes Robb came to watch them in the yard and she would catch him studying her. It made the heat rise to her face. She knew she must look a fright and probably wanton as well but she loved the sound of the wooden swords crashing against each other in the cold air.

            When she had supper with Robb later that night in her sitting room, he remarked that he liked her better in breeches. She didn’t know if the heat she felt was from the candles or from the warmth of his gaze.

* * *

 

            She had been in Winterfell almost a year. Her name day was coming and Robb had graciously offered to throw a feast for her. Her uncle was coming and it was rumored that he traveled on the Queen’s business. Some even said that soon they might see dragons flying overhead if Daenerys decided to show up. It seemed like a lot of bother for a girl who was just a bastard born of incest who’d been brought low. But she should have known it wasn’t for her.

            “You mean to make him Lord of Casterly Rock?” Myrcella cried out. She pounded her fist on the table and her wineglass spilled over. “What of Tommen? What of House Lannister? Is it all supposed to die with us?”

            “The Queen would have it so and I can’t say I blame her,” Tyrion responded calmly. Though he would be wroth if you said it, Tyrion looked exactly like his father Tywin. Cold and calculating and indifferent to Myrcella’s anger. “I need an heir to carry on at Casterly Rock and the Queen would not have the Lannisters or the Tyrells rise to such power or station. I have no desire to return to the Rock and the Queen hopes to raise her power in the west by fostering Rickon at King’s Landing until he is old enough to serve as Warden of the West. He’ll be betrothed to one of the lesser western houses to consolidate his power in the West and you …” Tyrion trailed off.

            Realization slowly dawned on Myrcella. “And I will be married off to one of your Northern lords. That’s what this feast is about? Selling me off to the north so House Lannister will die?” Myrcella gripped the back of her chair and breathed deeply. She felt as if the room were spinning. She’d let herself believe that this was all over. She’d come to Winterfell unsure if she were a guest or a prisoner and over time, she’d begun to believe it was the former but she should have known better. When she finally spoke, it took all her strength not to scream. “Uncle, may I take my leave?” Tyrion could barely meet her eyes as he bade her goodnight.

* * *

 

            Robb was overwhelmed with the preparations for Myrcella’s feast and when Jon showed up just a day’s ride behind Tyrion, he was suddenly not throwing just a name day feast but a welcoming feast for the southron king so it wasn’t until he came to escort her down to the Great Hall that he finally had a chance to speak to her. When she exited her chambers, Robb could not help but stare at her. She was wearing the silver and white of House Stark, and the beading on her bodice picked out the picture of icicles. It was appropriate since she met him with a chilly air.

            “My lord,” Myrcella curtsied and held out her arm. Her hair was pulled back in a simple style with ringlets flowing down her back and Robb stopped himself from reaching over to tuck one of the curls that had escaped when he saw her chilly gaze.

            “Myrcella –,” he started but she cut him off.

            “Perhaps it would be best if we used our courtesies, I would hate for someone to get the wrong idea.” Myrcella fixed her steely glare straight ahead. “After all, it will be hard enough to make a match for the Bastard Princess without people thinking I’m a wanton as well.” Robb was completely taken aback. When Myrcella spoke like that, so sharp and cold, he was almost the young boy he'd been when the King had come to Winterfell so many years ago. He remembered thinking that Queen Cersei was so beautiful and yet so mean and sad. And despite the snowy silver dress she wore, Myrcella looked like the cold lioness her mother had once been. He didn’t know how to respond so he just took Myrcella to the Great Hall determined to figure out what was going on.

* * *

 

            Myrcella sat stiffly on the dais, sandwiched in between her uncle and one of Robb’s bannermen. She couldn’t help look over the young and old lords seated at the table and wonder which one of them she would be given to, bartered off like a parcel of land or a bushel of grain in exchange for Casterly Rock and an alliance with the North. Myrcella looked down as her eyes began to burn hotly with tears. She thought that being the Bastard Princess meant she might be able to choose her own path. She should’ve known better. 


	2. A Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Myrcella deal with the fallout of Dany's decisions and someone new comes to Winterfell

**Chapter 2:** A Promise

 

During the war, Robb was all Tully. _Family, Duty, Honor._ Those words had echoed in his mind every day. They’d taunted him when he’d watched Roose Bolton stab his wife through her belly. And he’d heard them ringing in his ears as he rode Bolton down and stabbed him through the belly. During the war he’d had the Tully fire but now as Robb tried to rebuild his life in Winterfell, the cold of winter had come to his heart.

Then Myrcella had come to stay and everything changed. Though he would never again hear Sansa sing _Alysanne_ or hear the clatter of Arya and Bran clashing swords in the practice yard, this past year he’d heard Myrcella humming softly as she sat at her embroidery and the loud strike of wood as she and Rickon played near Mikken’s old forge. And the ice around Robb’s heart seemed to crack just a bit. At one point, he’d considered asking Rickon if he wished to be betrothed to the fallen princess but then he realized that Rickon’s interest was nothing but brotherly. He followed Myrcella around as he’d once chased after Arya seeking her approval. And as the time passed it was Arya whom Myrcella reminded Robb of most, running about the castle in her breeches and Rickon’s old tunics.

Most days, it was easy for Robb to forget Myrcella was a highborn lady, the issue of Cersei and Jamie Lannister. But today when he’d gone to escort her down to the feast and she fixed him with her icy stare, it was like looking at Cersei Lannister reborn. Knowing it was futile to try and talk to her when she was in a mood, Robb waited until he was seated at the feast to lean in to his brother and ask what had transpired between Myrcella and her uncle. Although Jon was now one of the three rulers of the realm being king still made him uncomfortable and to Robb he would always be Jon Snow, his natural brother and friend, so when Jon’s eyes shifted away from his guiltily, Robb knew immediately that his brother was holding something back.

“Dany had hoped to talk to you privately, after the feast was over,” Jon said, glancing at his wife who was laughing heartily with one of the Karstarks.

“Why would Daenerys need to talk to me about Myrcella?” Robb asked. “What have you two been plotting?”

“This was not my idea,” Jon said moving quickly to reassure him. “Dany and Tyrion have been fighting bitterly over this for the past few weeks and only just reached an agreement.”

“An agreement about what?” Robb said with a sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, a gesture that reminded Jon of their father. Like Ned Stark, all Robb craved now was peace and Jon knew from ruling the realm that there was no real peace to be had, a lament he oft shared with Dany when they lay in bed at night. If Jon wasn’t completely smitten with the Dragon Queen, he didn’t know how he could bear the weight of ruling the Seven Kingdoms.

“Dany doesn’t want the Lannisters to secure the West once again. She seeks to cut off Tommen from his birthright by naming Rickon Tyrion’s heir.” Robb’s eyes widened incredulously as he realized what Jon was saying. Rickon would leave. He would be the only Stark left in Winterfell and Rickon would only return as a guest. And there was nothing Robb could do. The Starks had always been loyal to the crown and to deny Dany’s request would be a slight to House Targaryen and to Robb’s own brother. But there was more.

“What about Myrcella’s right to Casterly Rock?” he asked already knowing what Jon would answer.

“Tyrion and Dany hope to make a match for her in the North.” Robb started to protest but Jon rushed on. “It’s for the best Robb. If Dany requests it no one can deny her and it’s Myrcella’s only chance if she ever hopes to be wedded.”

“And House Lannister will die with her and Tommen,” Robb said heatedly. “Tommen is drowned in roses and Cella is left to wither in the ice and snow.”

“She will not wither,” Jon said defensively. “She seems very happy here in Winterfell.”

_Because she thought she was free,_ Robb thought to himself but he held his tongue. “As Lord of Winterfell, I ask that you and Dany let me decide who and when Myrcella will wed,” Robb asked, trying to keep his calm. His gaze roamed over to where Daeneyrs was now talking with the Umbers. Now that Robb knew her plans, he saw what Dany was doing. Charming the Karstarks and Umbers and Mormonts. Hoping to offer Myrcella’s maidenhead as a prize that would please their queen. He glanced at Myrcella and saw that she was not oblivious to what the Queen was doing. Though she sat politely and smiled pleasantly, there was anguish in her eyes. She was a lion caged.

“Well Dany had hoped –,” Jon began.

“I do not care what Dany had hoped,” Robb said cutting him off. “You asked me to take Myrcella in and take care of her. She is my ward and an orphan and as Lord of Winterfell, I will decide which of my bannermen she shall wed.”

“Robb, you must think of how it will look. Once we return south, Rickon will come with us. You are unwed, and have no daughters of an age with Myrcella. It would be best if she were married.”

“I don’t care about propriety. I will not force this upon her. Think of what this will be like for her Jon. Think about Arya.” Robb looked at him and knew he’d won. Jon still mourned his little sister who’d treated him more like a brother than anyone else. Jon would never have forced Arya to marry a man she didn’t want or love.

“I will talk to Dany,” he said, quietly.

“See that you do,” Robb said, excusing himself from the table.

* * *

 

            Myrcella was trying to figure out how to make her excuses when Robb strode up to her determinedly. “Lady Myrcella, could I beg for a dance?” his gruff voiced asked.

            She looked up at him ready to give him the same steely glare that drove him away earlier but she caved at the look of desperation in his eyes. “Of course, my lord,” she replied coolly taking his hand.

            Robb’s hand slid around her waist with an ease and familiarity. He held her firmly but allowed Myrcella her space. She looked up, startled to see him looking down at her affectionately. Sometimes she got so used to seeing Robb playing the Lord that she forgot that he was still a very young man. Barely one and twenty. He was already a widower and had proven himself in battle but like her, he was still so young. And he was one of the few people who really saw her. He never shied away from her scar and never turned his eyes away from her cool eyes. So she knew she couldn’t stay mad at him.

            “I didn’t know, Cella,” he said softly. “You have to believe me.”

            She looked up at him and nodded. “I believe you.”

            “I’ve talked to Jon. There’s nothing to be done about Rickon and Casterly Rock, but you are my ward and I am Lord of Winterfell, so I can choose whom you will wed.” Robb softly caressed her cheek. “And you will not be wed to anyone you do not want.”

            Myrcella was grateful for what Robb could offer but she was still heartsick. Tommen would stay in the Reach. Rickon would leave her. She would stay in the North … and House Lannister would die when she and brother did. There would be no more lions in Casterly Rock except those beasts who resided deep in the pits. But as she looked up at Robb she knew she could not blame him. This was not what any of them wanted, but it was what they had left.

* * *

 

            Rickon was set to leave in a fortnight. While Dany and Jon were at Winterfell, they went to the Wall to visit Jon’s old friend Samwell Tarly. Myrcella knew that as soon as they returned they would push Robb to find her a match so she distracted herself by spending as much time with Rickon as she could before he headed south. The two of them were coming in from the yard, exhausted from swordplay when Myrcella heard the rich clanging of metal on metal coming from the castle’s forge. Robb and Rickon always referred to it as Mikken’s forge, though from what Myrcella knew Mikken had been long dead, put to the sword when Ramsay Bolton and the Flayed Men took Winterfell during the war. Since Winterfell had been rebuilt and the war was over the need for swords had lessened and the forge was usually fairly quiet. Now a young man, about the same age as Robb, toiled away and Myrcella stopped to see what he was doing.

            “Hello,” Myrcella said when the man took a moment to rest in his work. Though she tried not to notice, the young man was very handsome. His eyes were a clear blue and his hair, which was plastered to forehead with sweat, was shiny and black. His face reminded her of her uncle Renly, though Myrcella reminded herself that Renly was no more her uncle than Jaime had been. But his shoulders were broad and strong like she imagined King Robert’s had been when he was that age.

            “Hello m’lady,” he replied. “I hope I was not disturbing you with my clanging.” Though he was big and imposing, the young man’s voice was soft and shy.

            “No I am sorry to interrupt,” Myrcella said. “I was just wondering who would be using the forge. I haven’t really seen anyone in here since I came North.” Myrcella reached out her hand. “I’m Myrcella.”

            The young man backed away slightly and Myrcella pulled back. She’d forgotten herself. How people saw her, the scarred, bastard princess. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend. I’ll let you get back to work.”

            “No m’lady,” he called out in apology. “I just – I’m filthy. I didn’t want to take your hand. I didn’t mean to offend you. My name is Gendry, Gendry Waters.”

            Myrcella reached out taking his dirty hand in her own. “Welcome to Winterfell Gendry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and kudos-ed me. I'm so sorry it took so long to update. This chapter was about 7/8ths done and then I finally realized how I needed it to end.


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